Blue Eyes
by becka
Summary: Slash. Uberdark! Omi's the sweet one. Omi's the cute one. Omi's the one who always smiles. Right?
1. Omi POV

Title: Blue Eyes

Author: Becka

Pairing: Persia x Omi. Aya x Omi. Ken x Omi. Youji x Omi. SchuSchu x Omi. Farfie x Omi. Brad x Omi.

Warnings: Angst. AU? Crazy Omi-kins. Dark. Incest. OOC? POV. Underage Sex. Violence. Yaoi,

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

When someone kidnaps you, you expect your parents to pay up, don't you? You think they care about you, love you, and want you back. You think that your life is more precious than the money. And when that lie is shattered, you think it's all over.

But not for me.

A man came to me and took me away from my kidnappers, held my hand tightly in his grip as he dragged me through the sewers. When we'd safely escaped my rescuer turned to me, eyes alight with unholy joy. "My name is Persia. I'm going to train you to be an assassin," he explained.

So I laughed and smiled and did what I was told. Persia hired the best to train me. Me, a little boy locked in a little room with big scary assassins. And they taught me.

They taught me how to fight in combat, how to paralyze, how to crush a man's windpipe.

They taught me how to hold a sword, how to dance with it, how to skin a man alive.

They taught me how to hold a gun, how to aim, how to shoot a man so that he doesn't bleed all over your carpet.

They taught me how to kill.

They honed my eyes until I could hit targets no wider then my hand from one hundred, two hundred, three hundred feet away. Then repeated the training until I could do it with my eyes closed.

They taught me everything they knew, from knives to wire, winks to smiles, and I learned. Learned so well and so fast that I'd get a fucking pat on the head at the end of each day, and a "good job, kid."

They always called me "kid."

"KID?" I wanted to scream at them. I wasn't a kid. I stopped being a kid a long time ago. Kids were children. Children didn't kill.

But I did.

Sometimes with my eyes closed.

And after they'd pat me on the head, their eyes would soften a little. They'd leave their hands in my hair, lingering there a while. Then they'd smile at me, and I'd smile back at them and they'd cover my mouth with their smile and my body with their hands, and they'd take me any way they wanted. On the floor, on a chair, over a bench, against a wall, and I never cried, not even once. And when they were done, they'd leave me covered in sweat and semen and I'd smile and they never looked back at me.

And still they called me "kid."

Persia never stopped them.

Some days he'd join them.

And I'd smile even wider, and no one cared.

Six years old, and I was a killer.

Six years old, and I was a slut.

Six years old, and I still remember.

One day, someone new came to teach me. He was twenty or so, maybe, with short brown hair and bright blue eyes. I knew he was new, partly because I'd never seen him before, but mostly because he blinked at me and asked me where he could find Omi, the "man" he was supposed to train.

I smiled and told him I was Omi, and he looked startled for a moment, then burst out laughing.

"That's a good one, kid. For a minute there, I almost believed you. Now..." he paused and grinned, "where can I find the real Omi?"

I thought to myself, "He calls me 'kid,' too," but I didn't say anything. I only looked at him and kept smiling.

His smile faded a little, and he just looked back at me, waiting for his answer.

Why would I answer again? I told him who I was, and he didn't believe me.

And after a while, he broke the silence with, "__You're__ Omi? But... you can't be more then six or seven years old!"

I nodded once. He must have been very odd assassin if my age could surprise him that easily.

He squatted down to look me in the eyes, and I kept my smile on my face.

"You a killer, kid?"

I nodded again.

He shook his head, and we went into the room and he started to teach me. I didn't know why they hired him. He didn't teach me anything I didn't already know. In fact, I was his superior in quite a few areas. When we finished the session, he just __looked__ at me, curiosity and wonder and another emotion I didn't recognize written plainly over his face.

"Kid, how long have you been doing this?"

I didn't know. So I told him I'd been doing this for as long as I could remember.

He reached out one hand and rustled my hair, and his fingers lingered there in a manner I'd become used to. I tilted my head back and smiled prettily, and reached up and pulled his face to mine and kissed him like I was supposed to do.

He stumbled back, stunned, and fell on his ass.

My smile never faltered.

"Kid..." his voice was hoarse, "How long have you been doing this?"

As long as I could remember.

And after a while, he got up and reached for me, and he took me slow. I couldn't remember a time it didn't hurt, but somehow he made the pain feel good. I wanted to thank him for that, when he finished. I would have too, if Persia hadn't walked in and told me to kill him.

So I cleaned off my knife, washing away the blood, and thanked his cooling corpse even as rigor mortis set in. And I still smiled.

After a while, Persia stopped training me and started sending me out on missions. At first they were single targets, mostly hit and run, and I preformed my duties flawlessly. But for some reason, at the end of each kill, I found myself thinking back to the young assassin with the bright blue eyes who made the pain feel so good and whose blood had stained my hands a pretty shade of pink.

Soon I had other missions to complete. More then one target, more complex infiltrations, and every time I came home to Persia, there would be someone there to bend me over in my room and fill my mouth with cum and fuck me until they passed out. Assassins, sometimes. My trainers, my teachers, but most often, Persia. And I still thought of the young friendly man with the blue eyes who had never hurt me.

And when the orders came in for me to go undercover as a prostitute, I wondered why everyone acted as though it was a big deal. I'd been whoring myself to them for a lifetime. Why would those strangers be any different? So I smiled at them, and they relaxed, and they patted me on my head, fingers lingering there.

I dressed myself up in tight, revealing clothing, darkened my face with makeup, and paraded on the street corner. Every five minutes men who smelled of cheap cologne and cheap money would come to me and make me offers. Hundreds of dollars for an hour, they'd smile. And I'd smile back.

Persia never paid me.

They'd find a nice hotel, or sometimes a sleazy one, and their hands would toy with my hair, and they took me on a __bed__.

My trainers never used a bed.

And when we were done with our sins, I'd crawl out of the bed and into the shower, and the men would toss their money on the bed and leave. I'd come out of the bathroom, my hair dripping, and I'd be alone in the room. No one there but myself and their money.

My money.

And so it went, for the next few nights- I'd smile, get fucked, get paid- until finally my target approached me. He took me to a nice hotel and even treated me to a meal. It was the first time I'd been allowed to cut my own meat. I cleaned that same knife of his blood later, and I walked out of the room with nothing, not even his wallet, because I hadn't earned it. He hadn't touched my hair, hadn't even undressed me.

His blood had splattered all over my clothing, but I wore black and no one could see it. Bloody and smiling, I skipped down the street and went back to Persia, the money I'd earned over that past month safely tucked into an inside pocket in my shirt.

Persia welcomed me home, and a few of my trainers were there as well. They ran their fingers through my hair and celebrated (in their own way) my success. They were so proud of me, they said. I didn't care. In two days it would be my birthday (according to Persia) and I planned on buying something for myself with my money. My money. Not Persia's. Not anyone else's. Mine. I could buy what I wanted and not owe them anything. That made me smile even wider.

I was going to be eight years old, and I had enough money to buy myself whatever I wanted. You'd smile too.

So I bought myself a computer, a really cool one. Persia saw it, of course, but said nothing. A few days later, he hired a couple of hackers to teach me. One of them had short brown hair and pretty blue eyes, and his hands lingered in my hair whenever I showed him what a good boy I was and how fast I could learn. In the span of three months (technically, as I still had my missions to complete) I knew everything he did, and more. I could make my computer dance and sing and do the hokey pokey, and the hacker with the blue eyes had been teaching me other things, too. Things he thought I didn't know.

But really, I did.

Persia found him in me, bent over the swively chair in the computer room, and he laughed. He told me to kill him, and I did. I didn't have any of my weapons on me, so I had to use my hands; he struggled so much as I tightened my small fingers around his throat. His hands shot up and yanked at my hair, and that almost made me want to laugh. But I didn't.

I smiled.

And when he was limp and blue, Persia took up where he'd left off, and I stared blankly at my computer screen and watched his reflection silently while he panted and groaned. When he left I went to take a shower, and when I came out, the man with the blue eyes and blue face was gone, and in his place was a fifty-dollar bill. I took it, tucked it into the pockets of my jeans, and finished off a program he and I had been working on.

Then I went down stairs and had a cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream and went to bed. I missed the feel of someone's fingers in my hair, and I dreamed of blue eyes.

As I got older Persia and my trainers came to me more often. When I wasn't on a mission, I was getting my brains screwed out against a wall, or I was tied up and someone (I never could see through the blindfold) would push their member past my smiling lips and fuck my mouth. And when I wasn't on a mission and no one was in the house, sometimes I'd amuse myself by crashing some corporate companies mainframe or transferring money from banks around the world into my account. By the time I was ten, I was a millionaire.

Years passed in a blur. One day I woke up and went downstairs and found Persia waiting for me at the kitchen table. He was never up before me, so I waited for him to explain himself as I made a cup of hot chocolate. He said nothing, but when I was at the counter, he stood, walked over to me, and reached for my hair and fucked me hard.

I pulled my pants up from around my ankles, zippered them, took my hot chocolate and put some whipped cream on it. When I sat down at the table sipping my drink, Persia cleared his throat. So I looked up at him, and on his face was the strangest expression I'd ever seen. It kind of reminded me of the two men with short brown hair and bright blue eyes right when they realized their lives were going to be cut short. Disbelief, maybe?

The look was gone in a moment, and he said softly, "Omi, I've formed an assassin group… Weiss, the white hunters. You will join them."

And I nodded and smiled, finishing my hot chocolate. Then I got up and made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I asked Persia if he wanted one, and he just stared blankly at me, so I shrugged, and smiled again, and ate my sandwich in the same spot he'd screwed me ten minutes prior.

Later that day, I went to my room and packed up my computer and my clothes (all of them, even the slutty ones), and as I finished carefully wrapping my weapons and disassembling my guns, I realized that there was nothing else I had to take with me. Clothes, weaponry, and a computer. After ten years of living in this house, all I had to show for it was a bruised and sultry body, a suitcase of clothing, a couple of trunks of weapons, and my fucking computer.

That made me want to laugh.

I didn't.

I smiled.

So I piled my stuff into the back of a rented car, and I looked at Persia and my other teachers. They looked at me; I smiled and they looked away. Surprised, I simply shrugged. I had nothing to say to them. I don't think I ever had anything to say to any of them.

Climbing into the backseat of the car, the driver looked in his rearview mirror and back at me and said, "Where to, kid?" His blue eyes were appraising.

I didn't answer him. I wanted to strangle him.

He called me "kid."

So I smiled and leaned forward and breathed on his neck, and the short brown hair there stood on end. He shivered, and our eyes met in the mirror.

"Anywhere," I answered.

He nodded, mutely, and drove to the docks, a few blocks away.

Together we got out of the car. His fingers tangled in my hair, and his mouth covered mine. A half an hour later I thanked his cooling body politely before disposing of it in the blue waters. Waves so bright, they reminded me of two other men who had such pretty eyes.

Alone, I hopped back into the driver's seat and sped along the roads which finally led me to a flower shop. A sweet, old woman welcomed me. I smiled at her and carried my suitcase and trunks up to the top floor. Choosing the smallest room, I unpacked swiftly. Then I went back outside, brought my computer in and hooked it up in the basement.

I drove the car a few blocks away, abandoned it after cleaning my fingerprints from it, and walked back to the flower shop.

Weiss.

I was the first member.

The others arrived eventually. Ken, Youji, and finally Aya.

Ken was bright and sweet. His eyes were bright blue and his hair was brown and short. He reminded me of other places and other people. His hands touched my hair often, but he never did more then that. At least, not in the beginning.

Youji was sensual and flirted with everyone outrageously. When he first met me, he didn't believe I was a killer. I could see it in his eyes. I wanted to tell him I'd been stealing lives and kisses since I was five (with my eyes closed, sometimes), but I couldn't of course. So I smiled at him, and pretended not to hear him when he called me, "kid." He never really bothered with me. At least, not in the beginning.

Aya was cold when I met him first, and distant. I smiled at him, and pretended not to notice his eyes boring into me whenever he thought I couldn't see him. He never touched me though. At least, not in the beginning.

Some days, I smiled at Ken, and his hands would tangle in my hair and his mouth would cover mine, even as his fingers lingered and leafed through my blonde tresses. His hands never touched me elsewhere.

Some days, I smiled at Youji, and he'd laugh and call me kid, and when he finally took interest in me and led me to his bedroom, he never stopped smiling.

Some days, I smiled at Aya, and he would hesitantly reach out to me and kiss me gently. His eyes never left mine.

After a while, Ken could no longer keep his hands off my body. He touched me as he pleased, hands in my hair, smile on my mouth, himself in my body.

After a while, Youji took the games in his bedroom far enough, so I showed him I knew his game better then he did himself, and he stopped laughing.

After a while, Aya could no longer look me in the eyes and the hesitant kisses ceased all together. But that didn't stop him from using my body.

All their eyes darkened when they looked at me, but they didn't __stop__.

I never stopped smiling.

And when I showed them I could kill, more ruthlessly and efficiently then they themselves could, they started talking to me. They started wanting to know more about me. Where I came from, how I could do what I could do. And I smiled sweetly at them and told them that if they didn't care about who I was when they were screwing me, why did it matter who I was when I was killing strangers?

I used more words then that, and I sounded a lot nicer, but it's basically what I said.

So they blinked at me and stopped asking and kept using. They never gave me money, but at least they liked beds.

Most of the time. Youji was the exception. He liked doing it whenever and wherever, and he was surprised to know that I could do it wherever and whenever. On the floor, against the wall, over a bench. He loved my versatility.

They all kept their relationships with me secret from one another. It was probably funny, but I didn't feel like laughing.

So I smiled.

I think somewhere, deep down, they did know that they all used me, that they all fucked me. I just don't think they could ever admit it to themselves. After all, I was fifteen years old. So young! they thought. But I'd been a slut since I was six, and a killer. It was nothing new to me.

Still, sometimes I remembered men with blue eyes and brown hair, and I'd look at Ken and wonder if he'd join them some day. I couldn't do that to him, though. He was Weiss. I needed someone else.

I dressed myself in my whore's clothes, and I went out on the streets one Saturday night. There I met a man with red hair like fire. He offered me no money, and I asked for none. At one point, while we lay next to each other in the bed, his hands surprisingly absent from my hair, I thought to myself, "I want a cigarette."

A moment later, he reached for his pack of Newports and handed me one.

I was silent as I looked at him, then took it. He lit it, and I inhaled deeply. I spoke to him. It was the first time I'd ever spoken to someone who'd fucked me, but then it was the first time someone who fucked me didn't let their hands linger in my hair.

"My name's Omi."

"My name's Schuldrich."

"I'm a killer and a slut."

"I'm German."

The corners of my mouth twitched.

He handed me another cigarette, and I lit it with the one I was still smoking. I handed it to him and he inhaled as I had. Then he leaned forward and kissed me even deeper. He pulled back, and I released a lung full of smoke.

I looked up at the ceiling and thought, "You can hear my thoughts."

His hands roamed over my body, and he breathed softly against my skin, / _yes._ /

We didn't need any other words. That night was the first I'd spent in someone's arms who understood me. I think it was the same for him.

It was also the first time I'd stayed until morning.

I met him again, and I visited his home often. He lived with three other men in a lovely, tasteful, very large house. Nagi Naoe, a Japanese boy with brown hair and bright blue eyes. I marked him from the first moment I saw him, and Schuldrich understood. He made no comment when the slim body ended up in the blue bay a day later. Brad Crawford, an American. He looked at me through hard eyes, and something whispered in my mind, / _He's a precog_. / It took me a moment to realize it had been Schuldrich. So Crawford too knew of my plans for Nagi. He didn't seem to mind at all. The light glinted off his glasses as he ran a finger across my cheek. Last, Farfarello, the Irish lad with white hair and golden eye. He fascinated me. Schuldrich understood that, too.

I bought Farfarello a copy of Dante's Inferno a day later and spent every other night in the padded cell with him, reading it to him like a fairytale. He enjoyed it, I think. He gave me one of his knives, and I could see Crawford's surprise when I proudly displayed it to him. A day later, I brought Farfarello one of my knives. And I told him the story that went with it. He grinned at me, and I kissed him on his mouth.

He bit down hard, and I tasted blood. That was nothing new. I liked it.

Schudrich came in and pulled me away a few moments later, and screwed me silly in the kitchen. I understood him as well as he understood me, and afterwards I made myself a cup of hot chocolate and offered him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. He accepted me, and traded me a cigarette for it. We shared the whipped cream.

I think what I liked most about being in the same house as the three of them was that they knew I was technically an enemy, as I knew they were as well. Did it matter? Not in the least.

Because they understood me as well as I understood myself, and I knew them in the same way.

Still, I always went back to Ken, Youji, and Aya.

Ken didn't comment when I changed my shampoo, but he bought me my old one.

Youji didn't comment when I shared his cigarettes.

Aya didn't comment when I looked him in his eyes and he avoided mine.

Farfarello didn't comment when I cut myself and shared my blood with him.

Crawford didn't comment when I slipped out of his bed into Schudrich's.

And Schudrich didn't comment when I smiled.

A killer and a slut. A killer who washed his hair. A slut who smoked. A killer who looked others in the eyes. A slut who bled. A killer who changed beds often. A slut who smiled.

Me.

Them.

Was it me, or was it them?

And I snuggled closed to Schuldrich as he murmured into my hair, which now smelled of strawberry instead of green apple. "Both, love."

So I smiled.

I was sixteen years old.

Later that night we fucked in the kitchen again, went through four packs of his cigarettes, and depleted Crawford's supply of whipped cream. His fingers lingered in my hair for the first time.

"Nice shampoo," he commented, and I sipped my hot chocolate.

Life went on. It always did. I never expected to go with it, though. When I was five, I thought I'd be dead by seven. When I was eight, I thought I'd be dead by eleven. When I was twelve, I thought I'd be dead by fifteen. Here I was, sixteen, and I was still smiling.

Then I looked in the mirror.

I smiled.

And I realized two things.

People are funny. They see the smile. I see the teeth.

That, and I don't need to worry about dying.

I'm already dead.

Schuldrich came over to me, wrapped his arms around my waste, and smiled in the mirror, too. "Want to read the last of Dante's Inferno to Farfie? Afterwards, I'm sure Brad wouldn't mind some company. And when you're done, we can visit your florist friends, share a cup of hot chocolate, and a cigarette or two. Hm?"

And the dead boy in the mirror with the bright blue eyes and the sharp teeth nodded his assent even as I gave mine.

o

fin

o


	2. Farfarello POV

Title: Holding On

Author: Becka

Warnings: Yaoi, some sex (not at all graphic), dark, angst, crazy Omi-kins, Farfie-POV, blood, OOC(?), AU(?), God-ranting, and really _really_ weird.

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

He's looking at me again, trying to get into my head, trying to get to me. His eyes are heated, his gaze smoky, and I? I'm dispassionate. I want to be dispassionate. But I'm not. My actions, my words, my very __thoughts__ should belong to God, to hurting him, to hurting me. But they don't. They belong to __him__.

I'm crazy.

Maybe.

That's what __I__ think, at least. There's something wrong with me.

Maybe it's just me.

Maybe there's nothing wrong with me.

Maybe I just __am__ wrong.

I don't know what __he__ thinks. I never know what he's thinking. It drives me crazy.

Or maybe it drives me sane.

__HE__ drives me. I know that. He comes down to my padded cell sometimes, to my home, and he leads me from the room, undoing my bindings and dropping them on the floor as we walk, leaving a trail of buckles and belts and broken ties behind us.

That trail always leads to the same place.

But the kitchen is as far as he leads me. He never makes me do __ANYTHING__. He never makes me walk into the kitchen, never makes me stand in the center of the room or sit at the table, never makes me eat anything he makes __for_ _me, never makes me drink anything he makes __for_ _me. He never MAKES me. But somehow I do it anyway.

He never does anything TO me, but he does EVERYTHING to me. It's his fault, and it's not, because he's not doing it to __me__. He's DOing it to me. Even if he wasn't with me, he'd be doing it anyway. But I am with him, and he's still doing it.

He meets my eyes, but he never __watches__ me. He undoes the binding that hold me, but he never __holds__ me. He mouths the words that enchain me to him forever, but he never __talks__ to me.

That's all my doing.

Today is no different. And I'm in the kitchen with him, but he's not with __me__.

I never have any choices in my life. I don't choose. Others choose for me. The American, the German, the other Japanese boy, and God. They all make my life.

And yet, in the kitchen, with him, I __choose__ to sit at the table. He moves to the counter, picking up one of the German's cigarette packs and taking one for himself. He lights it, inhales deeply, and I find myself wanting to be that poisonous smoke, because it's IN him, IN his blood, where I WANT to be, but I'm HERE. Watching.

Why does he smoke those things? I find myself wondering that.

Then I shake my head. It shouldn't matter why. It's killing him slow. That hurts God.

But it hurts __me__ too.

He moves around a bit, making two cups of hot chocolate. Hot, like him. He turns to me, the two cups in his hands, and he puts them down on the table in front of me. He also places a sharp kitchen knife down, and a can of whipped cream.

I know what he wants. I know what I'm going to do.

But I don't know how long it'll take before I break and give in.

I wonder how long I can keep him out of my head.

Somehow he always manages to get in, though. No matter how hard I try to keep him out, he weasels and worms (does NOTHING!) and there he is again, back where I started him.

What's wrong with me? He's in my head!

GET OUT OF MY HEAD!

He smiles, as though he knows what I'm thinking. He probably does.

Why? Why why Why WHY! Why is he here?

I can push them all away, but there he is with his smoky eyes and his sweet, viperous smile, and HE WON'T LEAVE.

I could kill him. I've tried to before.

I failed.

So I'll try again.

I reach forward, my eyes fixed on the knife. My fingers close around the hilt, so familiar, and I raise it to his skin. His chest, right by the heart, and it's all I can do not to grit my teeth.

I can do this. I can. I can I can I can I can I CAN.

And he does nothing. He breaths, soft, normal, relaxed.

My hand trembles.

I steady it with the other.

If I can only not look at him. If I can only will myself not to look up into his sweet, child-like features, his smoky eyes, I can do this.

Please.

Just let me do this.

I choose to do this.

But I loose the battle, and tilt my eyes up to meet his.

So beautiful. So perfect. So utterly blank.

He smiles.

And the knife drops from my hand and clatters onto the table.

I can't kill him.

I need him.

WHY?

Maybe I'm not wrong. Maybe he's wrong.

HE'S NEVER WRONG.

God's wrong. He's not.

Does that make him better then God?

I want to know.

I want him.

He reaches down and picks up the knife, still smiling. His voice, sweet, melodious, mouths words and I hear them.

"Which one do you want?"

I was wrong. There's one thing he MAKES me do. He makes me choose.

I look at the two cups of hot chocolate, pointing to the one on the left. He pulls it over to him, bringing the knife to his palm. One slice, one cut, and his blood trickles into my cup.

We stay there, statues, frozen, and finally he stirs the blood and chocolate with the knife, then hands it to me.

Still smiling.

He pulls the other cup over to himself, placing the knife on the table. I watch as it stains the wood. Black and red, red and black. He moves again. I don't need to watch him to know what he'll do. This is habit for us.

He takes the whipped cream can, shakes it, and distributes two small mounds of sugary sweetness and cream, one on each of our cups. Watching him sip his hot chocolate, I wait a moment. Glancing at my cup, I gently stir the whipped cream with my finger, and I'm fascinated as to how it turns pink in some places. Almost as if someone dribbled a little bit of red food dye on it here and there.

We drink amiably in silence, and I wonder, as I always do, why he brings me here. Why we do this. Why he never leaves me. Why we must go through the same motions, again and again, like some kind of demented dolls.

I think it's because one day he hopes I won't look up into his eyes.

I finish my hot chocolate and I reach for him. My hands find his hair, and his smile finds my mouth, and there's no more I need to say. He drives it all from me. My God, my life, my thoughts. They're filled by him, and there's nothing I can do. There's nothing I want to do.

And I take him, because he never leaves. I wrap my arms around his waist and cover his smile with my kiss, and he wraps my mind around his thoughts and covers my kiss with his smile, and I can hold him so tight and tight and tighter still and he WON'T LEAVE. He stays with ME. And I hold him.

Why can't HE LEAVE?

WHY CAN'T HE LEAVE ME?

WHY WON'T HE GO AWAY?

He's the only one who stays with me, like this. The American will look at me as though I'm crazy, like I'm insane, as if somehow I'm not all there. __He__ never does that. The German will look at me as though I'm a bug, sometimes, and sometimes as though there's no one else he'd rather be looking at. __He__ never does that. The other Japanese boy simply won't look at me. __He__ never does that.

When we finish, he cleans himself up and washes his hands, then he asks me if I'd like to wash mine.

And I choose to.

He puts the two cups and the knife in the sink, and the whipped cream in the trash. And together we walk out of the kitchen and back to my prison, my home. And he stays with me, reading to me from a book he bought just for me. Dante's Inferno. The irony is not lost.

This is my heaven.

This is my hell.

And he is my downfall.

WHY WON'T HE LEAVE ME?

I wrap my arms around him, pulling him close.

EVEN GOD LEFT ME.

This is how I'll fall asleep.

WHY WON'T HE?

He'll be here when I wake up.

WHY WON'T HE!

And somewhere in my thoughts as I hold him closer to me still, and he smiles against my skin and looks at me through smoky blue eyes, I wonder if he'd leave me if I let him go.

o

fin

o


	3. Youji POV

Title: Bad Habits

Author: Becka

Warnings: Yaoi, some sex, dark, angst, crazy Omi-kins, Youji-POV, OOC(?), AU(?), some unhappy childhood trauma, and really weird.

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

My earliest memory is of a cigarette. I used to wonder what was so great about a little roll of paper, stuffed full of this funny smelling, straggly looking, dried up plant. I thought maybe its appeal lay in that fact that it didn't burn.

You have to understand. I was a kid. When you set something on fire, it burned. Laws of nature, right?

But when you lit a __cigarette__ on fire, it didn't just go up in flames. It kind of moved lazy, like it was going to simmer at its own pace and nothing anyone one did or said could change that. It didn't burn. It controlled the fire, and it __let__ the fire burn it.

Of course, that idea wasn't my first memory. That came later on.

My first memory was screaming as my father put his cigarette out on me, using my tongue as his ashtray.

I hated cigarettes, but I admired them at the same time. I hated them because usually whenever anyone smoked them near me, I figured I was gonna' end up hurting like hell. And I admired them because they could __control__. They controlled fire. They controlled my father.

I don't know which of those I was more impressed by.

My father was a big guy, tall and broad. His arms were wide, and once, when he flexed them and told me to touch them, I found that they were as solid and immovable as any wall I'd ever been thrown against. His blonde hair was cropped. He wore tight shirts and tight jeans. He drank often and smoked like a chimney. He could brag he'd been in every whorehouse and every prison this side of Japan.

I never did figure out how he ended up with my mother.

She was slender and it seemed as though the softest summer breeze would knock her right over. Her eyes were the brightest green, and they sparkled like emeralds whenever she looked at my father. She wore spring dresses year-round, and she smiled often, pearly whites flashing at anything that caught her fancy. God, she was a beautiful woman.

He loved her, I think.

But he didn't love me.

Well, maybe he loved me, but I don't think he liked me.

I was tall for my age, but I had none of his girth. In that aspect, I was as lanky as my mother. My eyes were bright green, like hers, and my hair was a soft blonde, like his. I could never bring myself to cut it all off like he did, though, so I let it grow loose. I had high cheekbones, and I guess I looked pretty girly.

He wanted a perfect little tin soldier to follow in his footsteps, I think, to parade in front of his friends. He wanted a toy copy of himself. I wasn't any of that.

But what I really think is that he just didn't like my face.

Maybe that's why he hit it so often.

I've always had an awful long-term memory, just like my father. Because the first thing I remember really is that cigarette.

I remember lots of other stuff after that, though.

I remember the first broken bone he gave me.

I was in grade school. Probably first or second grade, but I don't know exactly. There was going to be a play, put on by the younger students. God knows why the administrators thought Romeo and Juliet was kiddie-material. None of the girls wanted to be in it, but a lot of the boys thought it was kind of cool. Talk about a paradox. So I tried out, and surprise, got cast in the role of Juliet. The teachers thought that was a riot.

I went home, excited as anything, and told my father. I don't think I'd ever seen of look of rage in his eyes as fierce as it was then. He reached out one hand and grabbed my wrist, and a moment later I heard a __snap__ and saw stars.

He wouldn't let me see a doctor for it. He made a splint himself and put it on me, and told me to tell my teachers that I couldn't be in the play because he and mother were concerned about my broken wrist and they didn't want me upsetting it.

"How did it happen?" they all wanted to know.

"An accident," I replied smoothly.

That was all I really could say.

My mother never said anything about it, and I never tried out for another play.

Even so, I got lots of other broken bones. I couldn't tell you how many. I never bothered to count.

It seemed like everything I did made him angry. Any little thing would set him off, and I usually ended up bruised and bloodied with a broken bone or two. Belts, baseball bats, cigarettes. I can't give him credit for originality, but I will say he was good at what he did with them.

The sad thing is, I can't blame him. It was my fault. I didn't learn fast enough. I didn't remember to do this or not do this. What else could he do? He had to discipline me somehow.

When I was in sixth grade, I brought home a girlfriend.

That's the first time I remember him smiling at me. He patted me on the head, nodded his approval of her, and told me he was proud.

That was the first time he told me he was proud of me, too.

When I dumped her, he gave me a concussion.

When I brought home a different girl, he gave me fifty dollars and told me to take her out to dinner.

When I refused to cut my hair, I had to wear a turtleneck for weeks to cover up the rope burn on my neck.

When I started smoking, he bought me a car.

For my eighteenth birthday he took me to a whorehouse and picked out his favorite for me. When I told him I wasn't interested, he turned bright red. Then he dragged me out of the building and into the car, and we drove home in silence. When we got there he pulled me from the car and threw me to the ground, and beat me within an inch of my life.

I must have passed out, because when I woke up I was in a hospital. The nurse told me that my father had killed my mother in a fit of rage, and then taken his own life. She stared at me a moment, then asked, "So, who's going to pay for your hospital bill?"

I couldn't tell her.

My mother was dead. My father was dead. What could I do?

After a couple of months, I dropped out of school. I didn't have any relatives, and I was legally eighteen, so there was nothing the government could do to me.

A year later I met up with Asuka in a bar, and we got to talking. She was a brilliant woman, and after ten hard lemonades, six beers, three Long Island iced teas, and bottle of scotch, we decided to start our own detective agency.

I don't know when it happened, but as time went on, I gradually began to change. My wardrobe shifted. I started wearing shirts that fit my body like a glove. I bought tight jeans. I think, because I never wanted to own a belt.

And I became a pack-a-day man.

Asuka and I drank often, spending most of our nights and weekends at a variety of bars. And usually we'd end up at whorehouse. She was as into chicks as I was. So we each bought ourselves a warm body for the night, and the next day, bleary-eyed and cloudy-headed we'd get to work. I got used to that life, forgot about the people who raised me, forgot about everything for a while but the cigarettes and alcohol and women.

Then it all came crashing down around my ears and I was left with nothing but her memory, and the sorry excuse for a business we were running.

So I did what I'd been taught to do. I dropped it all and ran, and when that led me into the middle of an intersection and the path of an oncoming car, I thought it was all over. I had no worries, no one to say goodbye to. My only regret was that I couldn't have one last cigarette.

For the second time in my life I woke up in a hospital, and a woman with red hair stared down at me with hard eyes.

"You're dead," she told me.

I wasn't in any hurry to argue.

"No living relatives, no girlfriend, no occupation. There's no one to miss you but a couple of whores and a few bartenders. Mr. Kudo, you've made my day."

Funny. When she put my entire life into a total of less then twenty-five words, she'd made mine too.

"So," she drawled, "how would you like a second chance?"

It didn't matter to me, really. I was as good as dead anyway.

So I opened my parched lips, and tried to sound somewhat dignified as I croaked, "Depends. Do you have a cigarette?"

She blinked at me.

Then laughed.

Still shaking with mirth, she opened up her purse and tossed me a fresh pack of reds.

Looking back, I realize that I sold my soul for a pack of cigarettes.

Of course, I can comfort myself in that she also gave me a lighter.

Somehow I feel I got the better end of the bargain.

After I lit up, she told me that I was to join Weiss, a group of assassins. I choked on my cigarette and nearly swallowed the damn thing.

Assassins, of all people.

I was a two-bit detective who smoked two packs a day and drank to excesses, and they wanted me to pull off a job as an assassin?

I told that to the redhead (turned out her name was Birman), and she smirked at me.

"Don't worry, Kudo. That's just your night job."

I never figured the woman meant my day job was even worse.

And so I became Youji Kudo, the fucking florist.

My teammates were… surprising. Ken, an ex-soccer player who still belonged in high school. Aya, a silent brooding man with no history that I could dig up. And Omi.

God, when I first met the kid, I couldn't breath. He was small, with two bright blue eyes that seemed much too large for his face. His hair was short, blonde, and it was all I could do not to bury my fingers in it and pull him forward and kiss his sweet mouth.

That, in and of itself, was a shock to me.

I never considered myself… I never thought I was… I mean, I didn't want to be…

I couldn't even admit that to myself in my head. I went against everything I stood for.

But then, I didn't really stand for much, did I?

What sealed it for me though, was the thought that my father would kill me if he was alive. So, smiling, I reached out one hand and tussled his hair and said, "Nice to meet you, kid."

He looked at me through those eyes, and I felt something in me stir. Something that sent the hairs on the back of my neck standing strait on edge. Something that told me to run, to hide, to get my hand of his hair and beg forgiveness.

Then he smiled at me, and the feeling was gone. I've never forgotten it, thought. That was the only indication, ever, that the boy wasn't just a boy. That he was dangerous. That he was a killer.

Months passed, and I got to know my three companions as well as I could. And Omi… God, if I didn't think that I'd frighten him I would have given into those dark desires in me. But he was a boy, for God's sake. A young, innocent boy.

But when I brought him to my bedroom and I let myself give in, just a little, I found how wrong I was. He didn't run from me. He wasn't innocent. He knew exactly what I wanted, and he gave it to me. I'd never gotten better from any woman I'd ever had.

And I'd had a lot.

After that, I didn't bother to restrain myself anymore. And he never stopped me.

Something in me, perverse and twisted, insisted that I still call him "kid." I don't know why I did. I don't think he ever was one.

Then something happened. He started to disappear, sometimes for days. The first time it happened Aya, Ken, and I were frantic. We searched everywhere for him, did everything to find him. It was as though he simply dropped off the face of the earth.

He came back, and I pulled him aside and held him against my body, and he let me. I buried my fingers in his hair, undressed him, pulled off my pants and took him there, on the back staircase in the flower shop even as Aya and Ken knocked on the door and demanded we hurry our conversation up. Even if I was angry with Omi and had a lot to say to him, I wasn't the only one who wanted to talk to him.

He made no noise as I came in him, and when I was done, he only pulled up his pants and ran a hand through his hair, then went to talk to them even as I leaned against the railing, spent and panting. With shaking hands I pulled out a cigarette.

By that time I was smoking three packs a day.

I found that I couldn't even do more then raise a brow when he started smoking them with me.

And finally, one night as I lay in my bed with him curled against my left side, a cigarette in my right hand and a matching one in his, I found myself wondering which would kill me first.

o

fin

o


	4. Brad POV

Title: Appearances

Author: Becka

Pairing: BradxOmi. SchuxOmi.

Warnings: Dark, angst, crazy Omi-kins, Brad-POV, OOC(?), AU(?).

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

What's today? Thursday? I believe so.

Black suit, Armani. Holiday Green tie, often mistaken for Kiwi. Black shoes, highly polished to the point of obsession. Downright White button down, Oxford. Onyx cuff links. Simple glasses, black frames.

Altogether a stunning appearance.

_/ Christ, fearless leader, don't you ever __sleep__? It's too early to go to work... /_

Schuldrich. His quiet words penetrate the haze of my mind. I can feel him buried deep within his blankets, safe and warm. Snuggled against him, in my minds eye, a small, deceptively fragile body with tussled blonde hair. Sleepy blue eyes blink open, guileless innocence flickering there.

Appearance, of course.

The German murmurs in my mind, sharing this quiet moment with me. As if it were my arms wrapped around the slim waist. My face buried in the baby down soft hair, inhaling the sweet scent of green apple. My fingers stroking absently over flawless, youthful skin. Me. Mine.

I can't even begin to repay him for these moments. Some things are priceless.

Even to cold-blooded killers like us.

Like him.

It's so funny to think of him as that. A killer. Perhaps even harder than that, because he's colder than we could ever be.

But he still smiles as us.

Appearances still.

Perhaps that's why I need him. Because I've only known one person who he reminds me of. And they don't stare out at me through the eyes of a child. He reminds me of -

_father_

_master_

_god_

- myself.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and turn my face to the side sharply. It takes me a moment to recover. Visions come at the most inopportune times. They don't even have the decency to let me complete my thoughts in peace. Then again, half of the visions I get are triggered by those same thoughts. My visions. My gateway to the past, television to the present, and open door to the future. They might be a gift. If they weren't so unbearably painful, that is.

Precognition is a terrible thing. It takes all the hope out of wonder.

The four of us, Schuldrich, Farfarello, Nagi and myself were brought together because we are special. A telepath, a berserker, a telekinetic, a precog: four men with gifts that can change the world.

With gifts that can break it.

I've heard what our associates call us. Anomalies, freaks, demons. They see Schuldrich, his attitude, his style, and think cheap, trashy whore. They see Farfarello, his scars, his smile, and think disturbing, sadistic devil. They saw Nagi, his glasses, his uniform, and think high school geek. They see an indestructible force who can rape their minds and steal their souls, and they fear us.

They don't know the truth. We're just – god – four lost and lonely little boys. How ironic. That's the only phrase that comes even remotely close to describing us. I suppose our masks are too perfect, too complete. They could run their hands along the smooth surfaces and not find one crack, one weakness. The four of us, we may be boys, but we were never young. We were never allowed to be.

I've been accused, quite often, of being a cold and heartless bastard. Calm, collected. I'm indestructible.

At least, that's what they tell me.

The perfect machine, the perfect man. What an appearance I make.

And yet when they see Omi, the bright blue eyes, the rosebud mouth, the tussled blonde hair, they think, "Cute kid."

I wonder how cute he would be to them if he were tearing out their throats with his teeth.

Every night, he sits with Farfarello, reads to him quietly, makes him hot chocolate. Then he slips into my room, silent as a wraith, and into my bed, making his way under my sheets and into my heart. And after he gives me a taste of his warmth, he lets me hold him for a sparse moment before stealing it away.

I want him to stay, just a little longer. I want to feel him in my arms, in my skin. I don't want to be alone.

But he won't. He can't. He'll slip out of my bed and into Schuldrich's, and the German will open his mind to me and share the scent of his shampoo and the heat of his skin.

I can't hate them. Not when they keep me alive.

He'll push the covers away, slide off of the bed, and walk out of the room, silent as only an assassin can be. He leaves me and I let him.

We both have appearances to keep after all.

I wonder if someday he'll stay 'til morning.

I wonder if someday I'd let him.

It doesn't matter that I'm a cold-blooded killer; I know what I feel. I suppose though, what truly frightens me is that I have no idea why he stays with us. My gift shows me what was done to him, what he's done, and what he will do. I don't believe he even has the ability to feel. But he comes back to us. And again, we let him.

I know how his teammates treat him. I know why they do so. And I don't believe that we're much better, save that we're honest about what we do. I don't even know if that makes any difference to him.

I have so many doubts. But all I do is send a quiet thought to my red-haired companion.

_/ What day is it, Schuldrich? /_

_/ Friday. /_

_/ Ah. The cornflower blue tie, then. /_

Holiday Green slips back on the rack and I pick up the appropriate color. Carefully, I tighten the noose around my neck.

We all have appearances to keep, after all.

o

fin

o

Note: Yes, for those of you who mailed me about this. The cornflower blue tie is indeed a nod to Fight Club.


	5. Ken POV

Title: Stationary

Author: Becka

Pairing: KenxOmi.

Warnings: Dark, angst, crazy Omi-kins, Ken-POV, OOC(?), AU(?).

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz does not belong to Becka; characters are used without permission for a non-profit purpose. No infringement is intended.

o

I don't like change. I never have, I never will.

I don't want to adapt or advance. I don't want to evolve.

Ever since I was a kid, I've been this way. I dropped out of high school because I never wanted to grow up. I never wanted to take that first step, make that first decision as to how I would spend the rest of my life. I dropped out and gave my life to the J-League. It didn't require any effort or thought. It didn't demand any change.

I can't deal with it, you see. I can't think about "the rest of my life" in a long-term way. I just... it freezes me up inside. Why should I have to decide now, now, now what to do. Why can't I put it off until I'm certain?

I guess that's the crux of the matter, though. I can't make a decision unless I know it's the right one, and I'm never sure what's right, so how can I commit? How can I decide? How can I possibly change?

That's the way it went for the first eighteen years of my life. I wasn't... happy. But I got by. Honest. Then someone had to go and shake up my world and turn it upside down and force me to change because they could.

My best friend tried to kill me. Well, I thought he tried to save me, but I've learned since then. And because of him I was dumped into a group of assassins and told to kill, kill, kill. Faster pussycat, kill, kill!

It seemed like so much in the beginning. It seemed like a whole new life. And then I learned that I didn't have to think or change or decide what's right. They just handed me an envelope with some mission specs, I did what they trained me to do, and point, set, match, I don't have to change.

It wasn't easy work. The decisions they made probably weren't the right ones. But I didn't have to think about it, and that's all I cared about.

Until I met __him__.

He was a kid. A cute kid, but still just a boy. I coached kids older than him at my soccer meets. But there was something about him, an air that hinted to danger and mystery and dark intrigue. And I kissed him because I could. His mouth was there. So was mine. No thought involved.

It wasn't a change so much as an awakening. He did things to me with his mouth that made me scream. He let me do things to him that I don't think I could ever have the stomach to do again. But he just smiled at me with that fucking mouth and I went with the flow. I don't know that I regret what happened. Mainly because I didn't make the choice.

He was my dirty little secret, you see. He was there and I could use him and I didn't have to give a damn or a thought or whatever it was that a normal, healthy relationship might demand. He'd lay in my arms some nights, the scent of his shampoo, green apples, so intoxicating as I ran my fingers through his soft hair. And I didn't have to think. I didn't have to choose. I didn't have to change.

And sometimes I'd catch him just __looking__ at me, and I think his eyes scared me most. That look was like he knew me from before, like he could see into my soul, like he was biding his time for... something. It's that whole cliche: will he kiss me or kill me?

I guess I didn't really care either way. It wasn't... it wasn't anything like suicide, suicidal tendencies, or whatever. It wasn't as though I had a death wish. But if he killed me or if I died on a mission, I wouldn't have to change ever again.

It's sad, really. I have so much apathy for my own life, death no longer bothers me. I'm willing to die just so I don't have to make the wrong decision.

Evolution is over-rated, anyway.

He was so young. But I think that's what attracted me in the first place; no matter what happened, he never changed. His eyes were calm, his mouth locked in a perpetual smile, his heartbeat never racing or slowing down. No matter what happened, he was always the same. I don't know if I loved him for it, or hated him because he'd achieved something I'd never been able to do.

And bit by bit, Omi began to disappear. He became a ghost of who he was, if that's possible, only around the house whenever mission specs came in. It meant that whenever I saw him, I fucked him just because I was never sure when he'd show up next.

I didn't choose to. I just... did.

And one day after he'd been gone for so long that I couldn't remember his eyes, he showed up at the doorstep, walked in calm as could be, and let Yohji drag him away for a stern lecture, most likely.

That night I found that his shampoo had changed. Strawberry burned my nose and the next morning I went out and bought him a bottle of the Green Apple stuff he used before. I don't know that he used it, but I hoped. Because he wasn't allowed to change. He wasn't allowed to evolve. He wasn't allowed to grow up.

And maybe, if I can capture that I won't need him anymore.

Maybe if I learn how he does it, I'll be stationary too.

And maybe, if I'm stationary, the apathy that's haunted me my whole life will just... disappear.

o

fin

o


End file.
